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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26963041">Mission to [Redacted]</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/NebulousMistress/pseuds/NebulousMistress'>NebulousMistress</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars Sequel Trilogy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Battlefield Trophies, Contains Chaos, Contains Science, Gen, Torture, field medicine, the Dr Katsuo standard of care</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 19:53:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,819</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26963041</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/NebulousMistress/pseuds/NebulousMistress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>I have an assignment. I've been assigned a solo mission to [redacted].</p><p>Thanks, guys.</p><p>It seriously says "[redacted]" as though I somehow don't need to know where I'm going! I'm flying in alone without a pilot, [redacted] isn't on a map!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Endless</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This began on twitter.</p><p>First, <a href="https://twitter.com/MotivationalHux">Motivational Hux</a> on twitter mentioned the RX Cadre as a source of glorious chaos.<br/>Then, chaos began to find RX-3081 in the <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/series/1698706">Hounds of Arkanis</a> series where he lived.<br/>Next, Motivational Hux and RX-3081 kind of bounced off of each other and I threw my hands up and gave in. I made an account for the <a href="https://twitter.com/RxCadre">RX Cadre</a>.<br/>GNK Cavalry were discussed. A <a href="https://twitter.com/NViciu">Loyalty Officer</a> may or may not be trying to scalp him. A mechanical fault in the older BB-3 units has been found. Hux still collects heads. Heads!<br/>Now I have to send the chaotic little sniper on a mission because of course I do.</p><p>I'm not entirely sure why I do this to myself.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The </span>
  <em>
    <span>Endless</span>
  </em>
  <span> was a beautiful ship.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was something elegantly simple about the older Imperial II Star Destroyers. Perhaps it was the lack of people, the lack of stomping boots and scurrying technicians. Perhaps it was their new role as support ships within the First Order. Perhaps it was the history behind this ship, or perhaps even the history commanding it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>RX-3081 was already bored.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The </span>
  <em>
    <span>Endless</span>
  </em>
  <span> currently patrolled a known route on the edge of the Unknown Regions. Its task was resource acquisition, taking tithes of children for the Stormtrooper program, of supplies for the First Order, of planets for disassembling into component parts. RX-3081 needed its route, it came the closest to RX-3081’s mysterious mission.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>[Redacted]. His mission was to a planet known as [redacted].</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even if he knew the name of the planet would that help him, though? He knew its location and he had its alphanumeric code. Maybe it was like his previous mission to a planet known in his reports as [classified], where he’d gotten so used to calling the planet [classified] that he forgot its real name.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>RX-3081 huffed in his armor and considered his options. The sniper range on the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Endless</span>
  </em>
  <span> was a standard Imperial II range, 500 meters long, meant for the RT-97. But he didn’t use the RT-97 or even the F-11DS. Not in the field. He was an Expeditionary Scout, a sniper sent in far ahead of the front lines, he couldn’t afford his every round burning bright and red and traceable.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He used a Regency-style slugthrower bought secondhand from Tatooine and then altered for his needs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He preferred it over the First Order blaster. But that meant he couldn’t use the 500m range. He couldn’t just sit here, either. He needed something to do.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A blue and gray ball rolled past him, beeping in binary.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>RX-3081 followed the BB-3 unit down the corridor.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was a Stormtrooper on a Star Destroyer. His black armor marked him as different from the other Stormtroopers. He wasn’t a guard, he wasn’t a foot soldier, he was a specialist. The black armor invoked memories of Death Troopers in the older officers, special operatives that may or may not have existed depending on how far up in the hierarchy one came from. The younger officers had no such association, accepting him as just another Stormtrooper variant, though one who was perhaps better at killing than most. It was the other Stormtroopers who weren’t quite sure what to make of him, whether he was still a Stormtrooper like they were or if he’d gone and become something strange.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>RX-3081 nodded as he passed a few officers on duty, noted as they nodded back at him. The BB-3 unit ducked into a side corridor, still rolling merrily on in its purpose. RX-3081 followed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He quickened his pace for the three steps he needed to overtake the rolling droid. He grabbed its head in one hand and pulled it into a supply closet, quickly keying the door shut. It squealed for one long moment until he tripped its magnetic connection and the head came off in his hand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The head went dark. The ball, on the other hand, rolled over his foot and slammed into the closet door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>RX-3081 looked around. It was a supply closet meant for MSE storage, small and inconsequential. He pulled up a crate and sat down, dragging the senseless droid ball to him and clamping it in place with his legs. He held it between his thighs then got to work on the head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>BB-3 units tended to transmit on the 3GHz wavelength. It was supposed to be a short range transmission, a wireless link between the BB unit and whatever it was interfacing with. A new technology meant to replace the ports of the R-units, allowing for a greater range of applications. At least, that was what the manufacturer claimed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The signal was never meant to transmit further than the distance between a BB unit and whatever terminal it was interfacing with. Except sometimes those terminals didn’t have local wireless receivers. Which meant compensations in the design. The ‘secrecy module’ was supposed to keep the signal from leaking out all over, tailoring the strength and direction of that signal to whatever the BB unit was trying to accomplish.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was a last minute addition to the design, prone to early failure and easy to dismantle. RX-3081 found the secrecy module on this BB-3 droid and spiked it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He kicked the ball out of the closet and tossed the inert head out nearby, then let the closet door close. He knew the droid would reassemble itself quickly then roll off, indignant at what had just happened to it. He knew exactly when this happened as the HUD in his helm informed him when the BB-3 began transmitting on the 3GHz band.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now he had something to do.</span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>A droid transmitting on the 3GHz band was surprisingly easy to track across a Star Destroyer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It shouldn’t have been this easy. The inner bulkheads of the Imperial IIs were supposed to be 3cm thick, doubled in the protected areas. That doubling should have been thick enough to stop a 3GHz signal. But it didn’t and RX-3081 wanted to know why.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He knew exactly where to find this information. More importantly, it involved food.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>RX-3081 scanned the mess hall with his tray. An array of Stormtroopers and technicians all gossiped as they ate their rations, speaking freely among themselves with the officers tucked away in their own better mess hall with better food and better conversation. RX-3081 found what he was looking for, four technicians seated at a far table. He approached.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This seat taken?” he asked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One of the technicians gestured to the empty seat. “Come, sit,” he said. “We’re all AM Cadre. 4101.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“237,” said another.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“4350.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And I’m 5011.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>RX-3081 nodded as each technician gave their operating number. He’d heard of the AM Cadre, they did a lot of repair work in the older Star Destroyers. Exactly what he needed. “RX-3081,” he said, introducing himself. He pulled off his helm and placed it next to him on the table.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What brings you to the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Endless</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” AM-237 asked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Transportation,” RX-3081 allowed. “I’m hitching a ride to another mission. Search and destroy, I think.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You think?” AM-4350 asked. “You mean you don’t know?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course not,” AM-5011 said. “You don’t know what you’re going to find until you get there. When was the last time you got a straightforward order?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not sure I’ve had one yet,” AM-4101 admitted.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“All of mine are straightforward, I’m not sure what you’re all doing,” AM-4350 said.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s because all you do is check the CS Cadre’s work,” AM-5011 sneered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And?” AM-4350 said, visibly gloating.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You might know where I can find some information, then,” RX-3081 mused. “I need to ping a 3GHz signal through an 8cm wall.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good frakking luck,” AM-5011 snorted. “Physics doesn’t work that way. You’ll need to find a wall thinner than that. Maybe use the floor.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Unless you can find gapping in the wall,” AM-237 realized. “If it’s not a solid wall you might be able to take advantage of gaps between the plates of the wall. Like the double bulkheads on these Star Destroyers. On paper it’s 6 to 8 centimeters thick but it’s really just two standard 3cm bulkheads with a gap of vacuum between them. Makes for better blast protection in case of rupture.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course it depends on where you find yourself,” AM-4350 said. “I imagine the New Republic redesigned quite a few things to make them less user friendly.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Less spy friendly, you mean,” AM-4101 said.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That is a problem sometimes,” RX-3081 said. “You spend all day trying to get information and nothing works.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And then you…” AM-4350 trailed off. “No, I suppose you don’t have the option of putting that problem aside to work on another one.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not usually,” RX-3081 agreed. But that was interesting, it meant he could potentially track this little BB-3 unit all over the ship. This would be fun.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stayed at the table as the four technicians finished their meal and left, only then pulling his helm back on and leaving. His BB-3 quarry was still transmitting even as its master ranted to it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And this was most interesting.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Colonel duLandis, the commanding officer of the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Endless</span>
  </em>
  <span>, had secrets.</span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>RX-3081 leaned against the wall near the command wing, a datapad in hand. To all outward appearance it looked like he was simply scanning through a report or scrolling through the holonet. Instead he had the datapad linked wirelessly to his own helm’s HUD, sensory data that had nothing to do with his own armor or body scrolling past. It was a conversation with his hacked BB-3 droid in attendance and it was fascinating.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Normally RX-3081 never understood embezzlement. What use were credits when food and lodging and entertainment and </span>
  <b>purpose</b>
  <span> were all provided for? But this he could understand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Colonel duLandis was embezzling food.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The </span>
  <em>
    <span>Endless</span>
  </em>
  <span> normally collected tithes of food to be converted into rations for the vast First Order warmachine, taxes paid by protectorate worlds in exchange for protection from pirates and brigands, from the dangers of the Unknown Regions. The </span>
  <em>
    <span>Endless</span>
  </em>
  <span> specialized in luxury foodstuffs, whole animals and dried fruits and local wines meant for the upper echelons of the military. Inventory was carefully taken when these goods made it to the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Endless</span>
  </em>
  <span>, though that inventory changed to a simpler measure of weight in ‘metric megatonnes’ once it was all offloaded and distributed. The losses were dismissed as rounding errors.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Those rounding errors supplied Colonel duLandis with his own personal larder, with bribes paid to other commanders, and with the means to keep his own officers fat and contented and unwilling to say a thing against him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>RX-3081 considered what to do with this information. He typed in a note on his commlink, uploading the invitation for others to look into the situation.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He winced and then put his datapad away, folding it into his belt. Sending that message triggered something and his commlink registered the ping. His fun was over. He stood up from the wall and started walking. He was a Stormtrooper on a Star Destroyer. Nobody would question him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, you there!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Correction, nobody </span>
  <b>should</b>
  <span> question him. Except for the black armor.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was no use running so he turned to see the two Stormtroopers in white, their weapons raised. Fine then. He could pretend he had nothing to hide.</span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>Stormtroopers manhandled the trooper in black armor, shoving him into the interrogation chair. Clamps sealed over his ankles and wrists, biceps and thighs. His helm was pulled off.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Normally I’m on the other side of this,” RX-3081 drawled.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The interrogation room was about what he expected. Piercing yellow lights stabbed his eyes. The interrogation ‘chair’ was a chair only in name, more like a table that could be turned any which way to disorient him while keeping him restrained. The standard instruments lined the walls, though most of them looked too clean to ever have been used. Two Stormtroopers stood against the wall, their weapons drawn as they stood guard. A junior officer, a lieutenant, held RX-3081’s helmet, examining it as though she’d never seen the technology. Given what RX-3081 did in the First Order, it was possible she never had.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She pulled the helm on then took it off. She thrust it at him. “How do you activate the HUD?” she demanded.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have a chip in my neck,” RX-3081 allowed. “I think about it and it turns on.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Turn it on,” she ordered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Doesn’t work like that,” RX-3081 said. “My chip is extremely short range. I can turn it on when I’m wearing it. I can’t turn it on for anyone else.” He saw no reason to lie about the technology, not when she could have the schematics pulled from the First Order databases.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She nodded once and stepped back. One of the Stormtroopers stepped forward and punched RX-3081 in the jaw.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>RX-3081 shifted with the punch, unable to properly roll with the impact. Armor hurt when impacting bare skin and this was no exception. He could feel the cuts where the edges of the plates tore through his skin. “I have a mission I’m supposed to get to and you’re going to rough me up now?” he demanded.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The lieutenant grabbed him by the neck, tilting the chair so he dangled from his biceps. He fought the sensation of almost falling, knowing she was trying to disorient him. “Why were you on the command deck?” she demanded.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was unaware I had limitations on this ship,” he said.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She reached behind him to pull the datapad from his belt, unfolding it and handing it off to a Stormtrooper behind him. “Funny, I was under a different impression.” She tilted the chair more, inverting him completely. RX-3081 blinked at the sight of everyone’s boots, closing his eyes against the headache that would surely result. This lieutenant clearly wasn’t trained in interrogation but she had some instinct for it. It meant she was less likely to hurt him without meaning to. But it also meant she was much more likely to hurt him on purpose.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s been spying on Colonel duLandis.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>RX-3081 scowled. “I have permission,” he snapped.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I highly doubt that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sir…” RX-3081 could hear the worry in the Stormtrooper’s voice. He winced again, they must have found the messages sent to the Loyalty Officer. He should have saved it for a report, instead his own research was about to be used against him. There was no good reason for an Expeditionary Scout to have information about the thicknesses of inner bulkheads in a Star Destroyer. At least he hadn’t named his sources, no reason to get the AM Cadre into trouble.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What is it.” RX-3081 watched the lieutenant’s boots move as she joined her Stormtroopers near the wall. He couldn’t see much else from here, he could barely hear the gentle tap-beep-tap of his datapad over the blood pounding in his ears. He hated dangling upside down, it reminded him of zero-g training.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The world tilted again as the lieutenant tilted the interrogation chair back up. It kept tilting even after the chair went still, RX-3081’s balance taking a moment to regain its sense of ‘up’.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You have permission,” the lieutenant said, her voice carefully neutral.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have permission to use certain droid exploits in my work,” RX-3081 agreed. “I know Colonel duLandis has ignored orders to replace his BB-3 droid with one that doesn’t transmit everything it’s doing to every transmitter within range.” He left it there, willing her to put the pieces together on her own. If letting her think her commanding officer was under investigation would get him out of this chair then so be it. If it caused her to turn him in to advance her own career, well, the colonel was an embezzler. He saw nothing wrong with letting her come to her own conclusions.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She nodded. “Let him go,” she ordered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>RX-3081 stayed still as the Stormtroopers unlatched him from the interrogation chair. It wasn’t his shortest interrogation but he was still glad it was over. She handed him his helmet. He pulled it on, activating the HUD as he did. The BB-3 unit was still transmitting as it listened to Colonel duLandis order him captured, detained, and interrogated. Fun.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I still have a mission to get to,” he offered. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The lieutenant smirked and turned her comm off. “You’re both dismissed,” she said, glancing behind. Her Stormtroopers left.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Does the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Endless</span>
  </em>
  <span> still carry TIE Scouts?” RX-3081 asked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We do. They’re not well stocked but it’ll get you there.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Excellent.” All he had to do was fetch his things and he’d be on his way. He could get back at Colonel duLandis later, after this mission.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After all, he was sure this Lieutenant would have made a report by then. She seemed the type.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Approach</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Originally posted as parts 1 through 7 available on the <a href="https://twitter.com/RxCadre">RX Cadre</a> twitter. This has been slightly edited for flow.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>'Not well stocked' was an understatement.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still, this mission was going about as well as could be expected. He’d gotten the opportunity to test the BB-3 fault in a hostile setting. He’d managed to avoid being tossed out of an airlock. He even managed to avoid admitting where in this galaxy [redacted] really was.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was in the middle of nowhere, a thousand light years from anywhere. He had three days worth of food and water and a spare air tank in case the TIE Scout lost pressure.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He had just enough fuel to get to his target, if that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The </span>
  <em>
    <span>Endless</span>
  </em>
  <span> disappeared into hyperspace, leaving the TIE Scout to spin slowly in the wake left by the burn of the giant Star Destroyer's engines.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>RX-3081 stabilized the ship, pulling it out of its spin, and brought it to hang motionless in space. From there he oriented the ship, set the calculations, and opened the engines. The hyperdrive kicked in and the Scout disappeared into hyperspace.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By the time he dropped out of hyperspace above the target planet the hyperdrive was running on fumes. Indicators all flashed red, warning lights blinked, and alarms squealed in quiet terror. Even the xenon tanks were nearly empty by the time he cut the running lights and breached atmosphere under the cover of darkness in the dead of night. IR scans showed the Resistance outpost in the middle of a landscape of dense forest and patchy swamp, an inhospitable morass meant to discourage ground assault.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was a good thing this wasn't really an assault.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>RX-3081 found a likely landing spot and set the TIE down. And down. And... wait...</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Of course. The swampy ground wasn't solid enough to support the weight of a TIE with inactive repulsors. He scanned the cockpit, looking for anything he could bring with him. One full canteen, one empty, and a collapsible water storage cube. Three emergency ration bars, Imperial era, expired a decade prior. Two ammo packs for his blaster pistol. Three clips for his custom slugthrower. A monofilament blade in a thigh sheath. And of course his go-bag, the bag of essentials drummed into him by his time in the RX Cadre. One never knew when one needed an unlocked datapad or a pack of chewstim or a Hutt Army Knife.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The TIE bottomed out with its panels half-mired and the cockpit buoyed on the ground. RX-3081 stayed still as the TIE stayed put, then sat back down in the cockpit. This meant he didn't have to rush, instead inventorying everything he still had available here in the TIE. Fuel was gone, there wasn't even enough left to make a bomb. This TIE was never flying anywhere again. But the hyperdrive computer could be useful. He made note of it, it was safer here than on him, then opened the cockpit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Animal sounds assaulted his senses. His HUD informed him the air was warm and humid. Night vision lenses cut through the night, showing him trackless jungle around the small clearing where his TIE lay in its own grave. The Resistance base lay 10 degrees north by northwest from here with its starfighters and targets and intelligence and unexpired food. RX-3081 stuffed everything into his pack and hoisted it onto his shoulders before lowering himself from the cockpit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Unlike his TIE, he only sank to his knees. He trudged north, pulling himself out of the mud to a more solid jungle floor. The Resistance base was one and a half days hike distant from here, and that was assuming the entire distance was solid ground. He needed to get going.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Intelligence said this Resistance base was the new home of Dagger Squadron and it was RX-3081's job to observe, verify, and if possible, eliminate. By any means necessary.</span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>From first glance the Resistance seemed well-supplied. Eight X-Wings, all T-85 models, sat in an interior courtyard next to a fuel tank. Cargo containers showed the newness of this particular base. But a closer look betrayed just how slapdash the whole thing really was. The base itself was a quickly assembled prefab, watchtowers still supported with cabling. Pilots unloaded cargo containers themselves. R-series and early model BB-series droids roamed the base. GNK knockoffs looked to provide most of the power as they were led around by R-units and plugged into walls, X-Wings, and the fuel tank.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>RX-3081 watched how the base moved and flowed through the scope from his slugthrower. His current perch afforded him some protection from view and the elements. This particular tree had a few branches that sat above the jungle canopy. Green feathered theropods sat on and around him, all shrieking as they conspired whatever dinosaurs conspired over. Insects buzzed in the bright sunlight just outside his shadowed perch.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This was not a safe place to be for any definition of, for him or for them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This base was too close to hyperspace routes that led to certain havens in the Unknown Regions. Dagger Squadron was too well known to be allowed to live. But it wasn't safe to send an entire Star Destroyer here to deal with one little base, not when Intelligence claimed these routes were still secret. Couldn't risk drawing attention to this system when officially there was nothing here.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>RX-3081 snorted in his helm. This was why the Expeditionary Scouts were tolerated. By the time he was done not only would the base be decimated but the Resistance wouldn't know who did it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A breeze rustled his perch, shifting his view of the base. At 2500 meters he was already well within the range of his custom slugthrower rifle but this was a poor sniper's nest. Too much movement. Too many theropods sitting on the barrel of his rifle. He needed a view from the ground, cover of darkness, fewer dinosaurs...</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>...his stomach growled.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And he needed a sandwich.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>RX-3081 watched the base ebb and flow, sentries scanning the jungle, droids rolling about, technicians arguing with pilots. Like everything else about this mission, the sandwich would have to wait until tonight.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He climbed down and hiked closer, keeping to the shadows and the trees until he found a potentially useful spot, a knoll formed by the corpse of a tree that fell long ago. He started setting up.  It wasn't perfect but there were no perfect sniper nests in the field. There were always trees and uneven ground and other people in the way. This was no different. The site was a little close for comfort, only 1.5 kilometers from his targets. It gave an acceptable view of the observation towers but that meant he could expect to be found and hunted far faster than he would normally like. He would see them coming across the kilometer of open ground but that meant they might see him as soon as he had to move.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This would be a dangerous hunt. And so he watched and counted. Eight pilots. Twelve technicians. All twenty of them rotated in and out of guard duty. Best of all, Iolo Arana was here.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Six GNK style droids, all of them visible knockoffs. One protocol droid. Eight astromech type droids: 2 R units, 4 BB-3 units, one BB-7 and one clearly stolen BB-9 unit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Resistance base sat in the open, a full kilometer cleared in three directions around the base. The approach from the North was cut off by the jungle and the complete lack of access points. The distance must give them all a fine sense of security given the limitations of plasma.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This was why RX-3081 didn't use plasma.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>RX-3081 set up his sniper rifle in the last hours of the day, laying out in his nest. The soft ground obscured his profile, a covering of leaves and dirt and carefully crafted scuffs hid the shine of his black armor from view. The ratty brown cloak and the long barreled Regency slugthrower with the double scope identified him as an Outer Rim hooligan, no one would think to associate such a weapon with a First Order sniper.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As the sun set he activated the nightvision of his helm, linking his HUD with the electronics inside the custom rifle. His breathing slowed as he fell into a comfortable pattern, the anticipation before a successful hunt.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>RX-3081 felt his heart rate slow as he exhaled. He held his breath at the low point, feeling his heart rate bottom out and then speed back up in an attempt to compensate for his empty lungs. It slowed again on the inhale, pounding the softest as his lungs reached capacity. As he held that breath it began to speed again, slowing back down as he exhaled long and slow and deliberate.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Twenty organics and nine droids. Not counting the GNKs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>First, the corner tower. It was furthest from the rest. If he maintained control he would get the second shot. Maybe even the third. He blinked long and slow as he inhaled, the world seeming to slow down the same as his heart. The Resistance technician yawned at his post and RX-3081 pulled the trigger.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nineteen organics and nine droids.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He had five seconds before the echo of the shot alerted the guards, half of one breath. He shifted a few scant degrees to the right, bringing the second tower into sight. The exhale seemed to take forever until he reached the base of his lungs and the glorious moment when the slugthrower stabilized.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eighteen organics and nine droids.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The last tower would be in full alert mode by now. RX-3081 shifted again and saw the pilot screaming incoherently, watched as he twisted and turned in his tower like he had no idea what to do. Then he made his mistake, grabbing a pair of macrobinoculars and leaning out in the open to try and see the source.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Seventeen organics and nine droids.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The doors to the base opened and an R-unit rolled out. RX-3081 focused the rifle on the red unit that rolled in a circle as it triangulated his position. It stopped its circle, pausing in the middle as its sensors swiveled in his direction. It knew where he was.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Seventeen organics and eight droids.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>RX-3081 knew he'd had his shots. He had no doubt the droid had relayed his exact location. He folded the stabilizing bipod on his rifle and stood up. He slung the rifle over his shoulder and cloak to hold the cloak in place, and to emphasize the disguise. Finally the pack. Then he began to run just as the base unleashed a trio of speeders out in his direction.</span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>The Resistance technician held her blaster ready, scanning the forest floor for any sign of the sniper. There were footprints here and there, all of them fresh. There was a bare patch with disturbed undergrowth where the sniper had lain when taking shots. BB-3 informed her the patch was freshly disturbed but so overrun with fresh tracks that there was no way of knowing where their sniper came from or went.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She scanned the ground for fresh clues, weapon held at the ready in case she saw their mysterious sniper.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She didn't look up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>RX-3081 dropped out of the tree above her, clamping her neck with his thighs. She tried to scream as she dropped her weapon and grabbed at the vise around her neck but then he twisted once, twice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crack.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>RX-3081 let the body fall from his legs as he dangled from the tree branch. He let go, dropping to the ground and rolling off, leaving the body where it lay.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sixteen organics and eight droids. Of those sixteen organics, four were out here hunting him. One more stood guard on the edge of the clearing next to the speeder and the two speeder bikes. Two droids, one R-4 unit and one BB-3 unit, also hunted him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>RX-3081 disappeared into the undergrowth, sliding under the shell of a fallen log just in time for the BB-3 unit to roll past. Its squealing beeps stopped abruptly when it found its fallen master. It gave a low whine as it nudged the body with its ball.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>RX-3081 considered the droid then pulled a maglev device from his pack. Yes. This would work.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The BB droid whistled sadly as it realized its master was dead. Then a moment of shock and then everything went dark as RX-3081 walked off with its head, leaving the ball to roll around without sensory input. He nudged the ball in one direction, rolling it down into a damp patch where it mired, unable to escape on its own. He needed the ball to stay in place for a few minutes while he spiked the head. Only a few minutes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Once he was done he pulled the hood of his cloak over his head and put the droid's head back on its ball then disappeared back into the forest while the droid squealed indignantly, its every calculation, every thought, every sensory input appearing in his HUD for his perusal.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wouldn't destroy this droid. Yet. He had better things for it to do.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>RX-3081 crashed out of the forest, pistol in hand. He fired at the guard next to the speeder, hitting them twice and allowing a third shot to go wide. He wanted to bring attention to himself as the two remaining Resistance hunters charged out of the forest to try and take him down. He waited until his HUD showed the BB-3 droid followed with a 'wait for me!' then jumped on a speeder bike and sped off around the edge of the forest, peppering his pursuers with potshots.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As he'd hoped, the two remaining hunters jumped in the main speeder, the BB-3 unit rolling in with them. The chase began.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>RX-3081 weaved chaotically, trying to make it look like he wasn't in complete control of the speeder. His ratty cloak billowed behind him, obscuring his armor and his identity as he reached behind with pistol in hand to squeeze off shots in a semi-random pattern.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His pursuers answered, shots peppering the ground near his speeder bike, searing through the fabric of his cloak, skimming the surface of his armor. This wouldn't do. RX-3081 activated the smart link between his HUD and his pistol, aiming behind him. It looked like he was shooting wildly, blaster bolts drifting wide as he allowed the smart link to calibrate towards a target lock.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He got the lock and fired.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The BB-3's feed told him all he needed to know.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Thirteen organics and eight droids.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Resistance speeder's lack of a gunner gave him the opportunity to pull ahead without being fired upon, looping around the edge of the forest to parallel the Western edge of the Resistance base.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He heard the whine of engines just as his HUD flashed the warnings and he ducked into the forest to avoid X-Wing fire. Pfassking bastards weren't playing around, they were willing to launch an X-Wing to take him down. Fine. He wouldn't play around either. He waited for the speeder to catch up to him as a plan formed in his head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was a stupid plan. Not the stupidest plan ever, but not far off. If it worked he would know soon enough.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Blaster fire shot past him as he sped through trees and shrubbery, once again reaching behind him to fire wildly. But this time he wasn't using the smart link to aim. He drew his legs up under himself on the seat of the speeder bike.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He fired at the speeder behind him, hitting the windshield. The pilot ducked, the droid squealed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>RX-3081 jumped and rolled.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The speeder bike slammed into the side of a tree at full speed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The world went dark.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The Assault</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Originally posted as Parts 8-11 on the <a href="https://twitter.com/RxCadre">RX Cadre</a> twitter. This has been edited slightly for flow.</p><p>tw: low tech field medicine, hints of sadism</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>RX-3081 opened his eyes to the sight of a blaster pointed at his face.</p><p>“Pfassk,” he swore.</p><p>“Yeah, no kidding,” the pilot snapped.</p><p>RX-3081 took a moment to scan his surroundings. He hurt. His left arm hurt like a bitch, a long line of pain spiraling through the forearm that might indicate a broken bone or two. The world spun ever so slightly if he moved his pounding head so he didn't, instead glancing back and forth under his helm where this Resistance pilot couldn't see. His HUD flickered as the connection faded in and out, at least he hoped it was a connection issue and not something more internal that had gone wrong.</p><p>“I think it's some kind of Stormtrooper?” the pilot said, speaking into his comm. “No, I don't know. What, you want me to ask?”</p><p>RX-3081 wiggled his fingers and his toes, checking to make sure he wasn't facing any pressing injuries. His legs felt fine. The shoulder armor on his right side crunched, though it was better the armor than his bones. His blaster was elsewhere and he was unlikely to find it. The strap of his rifle dug into the underarmor on his neck but that meant the rifle was likely still strapped to his back.</p><p>“Don't move,” the pilot warned, blaster shaking in one hand while he argued with his comm. “He's not wearing white. I thought all Stormtroopers wore white. Okay, and red, but that was just one of them.”</p><p>The pilot sounded distracted, distant. He focused on his comm instead of on his prisoner. He'd probably never held a blaster on anyone before. He probably wouldn't fire unless he absolutely had to. RX-3081 made an educated guess and took a calculated risk. He rolled over onto his right side, groaning as if injured.</p><p>“I said don't move!”</p><p>RX-3081 stopped moving and stayed in his new position, broken arm slung over his middle. The rifle strap dug in harder. But most importantly, his right hand was now next to his thigh sheath. He unsheathed the knife.</p><p>“All right, I'll see if I can drag him in,” the pilot said. “If I can't I'll comm in.” He turned the comm off.</p><p>RX-3081 flung himself to his feet, knocking the blaster out of the pilot's hands. Then he lunged into the pilot, throwing him to the ground and stabbing him over and over.</p><p>The BB-3 unit screamed. RX-3081 grabbed the pilot's pistol and shot the droid.</p><p>Twelve organics and seven droids. Hmph. The BB-3 exploit hadn't been as useful as he'd hoped. Maybe it was better suited for internal affairs. But he had more pressing matters to concern himself with right now. Before anything else he had to do something about this arm.</p><p>RX-3081 assumed the arm was broken. His training told him to assume broken until proven otherwise. The armor could be used as a field splint if he tightened it. He wouldn't regain full use of the arm, not even enough to wield his rifle outside of a nest, but he wouldn't need a sling. He couldn't afford a sling. He had things to do.</p><p>First thing first, get the rope. RX-3081 pulled off his helmet so he could grab one end of the rope in his teeth. It would keep him from screaming as well as make up for the lack of hand. Next he wrapped the rope around his arm, looping it in the way he'd learned in survival training and pulled it tight.</p><p>He bit down on the rope, snarling into the nylon fiber as he shuddered through the pain. The arm was definitely broken. He needed to get the splint set quickly. He adjusted his grip on the rope and pulled again.</p><p>This time he screamed through gritted teeth. Green feathered theropods took flight, their tiny cries adding to the beacon of noise the Resistance would surely follow to find him. He snorted through the dull haze at the edge of his vision and checked the arm. The armor was tied as tight as he could manage it, good enough. He tied the end of the rope around one boot, a one-handed bowline, and stretched out his leg to keep the rope taut. That freed his hand to pull the zip ties from his pack.</p><p>He fumbled the first few, unable to wrap them around the wrist. But one stayed on and he tightened it as far as it would go. Then the second one further up the forearm. As each zip tie tightened, he returned to the previous ones to make sure they all stayed tight and put until he was finally able to drop the rope.</p><p>That would do for a field splint. Next he dug in his pack for painkillers, chewing three tabs and a field stim to clear his head.</p><p>Twelve organics and seven droids. He was almost half done with this mission. He coiled the rope and stood up, leaning against a tree trunk for a moment of stability. Once he caught his breath he pulled his helm back on and headed off toward the north wall of the Resistance compound.</p><p>Their compound was guarded on three sides and now they had 8 fewer people to defend it. He had the advantage. He just had to use it correctly.</p>
<hr/><p>RX-3081 watched the base from his perch near the north wall. His camouflage slept around him, green feathered theropods all perched in the branches.</p><p>The base was on high alert. One X-Wing sat prepped with a BB-7 ready for takeoff. The cockpit was open wide, the pilot fiddling with controls and shouting down at the technicians around him. Using the ship's sensors, no doubt. RX-3081 wasn't worried, his armor kept him IR-neutral, blanking his heat signature from the X-Wing's sensors. The entire jungle canopy must ping with errant life-readings, which meant he was safest here in the trees.</p><p>He couldn't use the slugthrower from this vantage point. He couldn't hold the rifle steady with a splinted arm. Worse, he'd scare the theropods and blow his cover without accomplishing much more than a few token deaths. Instead he pulled the scope from the rifle, watching and waiting for an opportunity.</p><p>The pilot stood up and started shouting down at the technicians on the ground.</p><p>RX-3081 dropped out of his tree and darted through the shadows to another tree, closer to the wall. He quickly climbed it, using his left arm as sparingly as possible. Once he was up among sleeping theropods again he pulled his scope and watched.</p><p>Night wore on like this. The base began to slow down, the stress of an unseen and unknown attacker fading into exhaustion as hours passed without another attack. Maybe he'd gone away and left them all alone.</p><p>Or maybe he'd approached through the jungle, hiding in the trees as he watched and waited and slowly approached.</p><p>The pilot yawned and got yelled at. A shouting match ensued.</p><p>RX-3081 dropped and moved, finally reaching his goal, the north wall. He climbed over the wall, dropping quietly into shadows on the other side.</p><p>He wasn't alone.</p><p>“gonk... gonk gonk...”</p><p>RX-3081 found himself behind a fuel tank out of line of sight of the X-Wing and the front guard. A GNK droid shifted from foot to foot where it stood hooked up to a fuel tank. The droid didn't have the logic circuits necessary to recognize him or anyone as a threat, nor would it know what to do if it did.</p><p>Excellent.</p><p>RX-3081 pulled the hookup wires from the fuel tank and plugged them into his datapad. The little 'battery charging' icon filled his display and he swiped it away. He wasn't here to charge his equipment. Instead he gave the GNK new orders along with a few interesting commands he'd always wanted to try. His datapad flashed a dire warning at him, which he also swiped away. Then he unplugged the GNK and moved, following the shadows to a new hiding place.</p><p>“gonk gonk gonk”</p><p>The GNK droid walked away from the fuel tank, heading for the base entrance. It ignored a pilot who ordered it back to the fuel tank. It ignored a technician who ran up beside it and then jumped on like it were a square riding animal, reaching down to plug in a diagnostic tool as he rode the droid. Instead it walked to the entrance where two guard towers were fully manned with two people each.</p><p>“gonk gonk... gonk gonk. gonk”</p><p>The technician screamed a warning as he realized the GNK was in overload just as the GNK began to spark.</p><p>“goooOOOOONN--”</p><p>The GNK exploded near the entrance of the base.</p><p>Seven organics and seven droids. Those were good odds.</p><p>RX-3081 broke cover, blaster in hand.</p><p>His first target was the X-Wing, pilot then droid. <span>The pilot jolted to attention when the technician screamed, staring dumbly at the explosion before powering up the ship's weapon systems and starting the engines. </span><span>He didn't get the chance to do more, instead slumping down from a blaster shot to the head. His droid suffered the same fate a split second later.</span></p><p>
  <span>RX-3081 rolled behind a supply crate, firing into the chaos. A pilot bolted to her X-Wing, scrambling up the ladder to the cockpit but she never made it, dead before she hit the tarmac. Droids squealed as they lost options, demanded orders, as the Resistance lost all control over the situation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>RX-3081 reveled in the honest chaos of a firefight against three pilots and two technicians, the only ones left alive. One pilot bolted for an X-Wing and took a shot in the leg.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This did it. The others broke, scattering in a free for all. RX-3081 picked the two technicians off, shooting them in the back as they ran away. One pilot dropped all her weapons and put her hands up, screaming for surrender. She received a shot to the chest. The last pilot gaped at her then screamed in challenge and rushed out into the open, falling to his own suicidal charge in a blaze of blaster fire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Zero organics and six droids. Almost zero, anyway. The guy with the leg wound writhed on the ground. RX-3081 stepped forward to see his prize.</span>
</p><p>“<span>Iolo Arana,” RX-3081 drawled. He stuffed the Resistance blaster into his holster, ignoring how it didn't quite fit.</span></p><p>“<span>First Order demon,” Arana spat.</span></p><p>Arana reached for the blaster on his belt. RX-3081 moved quickly, the shot going wide as he kicked the weapon from Arana's hands.</p><p>
  <span>RX-3081 drew his slughthrower. The weight twinged his left arm but he refused to show pain. Instead he twisted the rifle in his hands </span>
  <span>then slammed the stock onto the pilot's head. Arana went limp.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The base was a mess. One X-Wing rumbled in place where its engines whirred impotently, causing the machine to bounce fruitlessly against the tarmac. RX-3081 considered the wisdom of simply getting out before the thing exploded when the engines went into auto-shutdown and the ship grew quiet. The entrance to the base was a smoking crater, the prefabricated walls and towers sending thick clouds of black smoke into the sky. Fewer bodies than expected lay around, but then he'd been thorough when picking them off specifically to reduce the difficulty of this assault.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Success. The mission was a success. RX-3081 looked down at Arana, his HUD informed him the man was unconscious but alive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Excuse me, sir, but what do we do now?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>RX-3081 turned to the silvery protocol droid that approached him. He looked back down at Arana. The mission was over but that didn't mean he shouldn't have some fun before leaving. "Activate any fire suppression systems," RX-3081 ordered.</span>
</p><p>"Yes, sir." The protocol droid shuffled off.</p><p>
  <span>Six droids. There were six droids left. When they were done he'd deal with them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He couldn't leave a single one operational.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But this pilot, no, he had plans for this one.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Iolo Arana</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter constitutes a <a href="https://nebulousmistress.tumblr.com/post/616692789320810496/here-is-your-card-for-bad-things-happen-bingo">Bad Things Happen</a> prompt fill for Interrogation.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>One unconscious organic and zero droids of consequence. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The base commissary was untouched by fire. Puddles of water left over from the fire suppression systems left everything damp and slick and just a little bit rank-smelling. But there was a table with chairs. A conservator. Damp towels to wipe down counters. A nanowave shorted out by the water. A plasma gasser as backup with some basic pots and pans and spoons. A sink.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>More than enough.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>RX-3081 dropped the unconscious body of Iolo Arana onto a chair and proceeded to tie him up. First, the arms behind him at the wrists. Then each ankle to a leg of the chair. Finally he ran a line of rope between the wrists and the rear legs of the chair. He checked the man's injuries. The blaster wound wasn't serious. It was debilitating but it wouldn't kill him. The rifle butt to the head didn't appear to break anything, just knocked him out. Good.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He had plans that involved that head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But first he had to prepare. He raided the conservator. Once he was ready he pulled up a chair to wait.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He didn't have to wait long.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arana's head lolled as he slowly came to. RX-3081 stayed quiet as the man regained consciousness, waiting for that one glorious moment...</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arana went still, sucking in a desperate breath as his memory returned. He shifted in his bonds, testing the ropes that bound him to the chair. His ears even twitched as he tried to make sense of his surroundings while staring straight down.</span>
</p>
<p>“<span>You're awake,” RX-3081 said.</span></p>
<p>
  <span>Arana's head shot up, his expression open in fear. That changed as Arana closed himself off, glaring in some attempt at bravado. “What are you, some sort of Shadowtrooper?” he sneered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>RX-3081 considered the attempt at a veiled insult. It didn't work, he rather liked it. “Never heard of a Shadowtrooper,” he admitted. “Sounds fun.” He got up and moved back to his readied supplies. He had everything he needed to begin a long interrogation, everything except one. He glanced back at Arana then reached up to remove his helmet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>RX-3081 watched as Arana stared in disbelief. Under the black armor and the terrible deeds RX-3081 was just a man. A fairly unassuming man, if he did say so himself. His hair was longer than regulations preferred, dark brown and just a little shaggy. He wore no obvious scars to betray his past or his identity. The small disc of gold metal implanted in his neck might have blended in with his dusky skin if constant use didn't have the metal glinting in the light. But he knew his most striking feature was his eyes, even if he couldn't see it himself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Everyone always told RX-3081 he had the most piercing black eyes they'd ever seen.</span>
</p>
<p>“<span>What happens now?” Arana asked.</span></p>
<p>
  <span>RX-3081 left his helm on the counter and turned to the task at hand. He assembled his supplies. First, the bread. Then this jar of white goop that smelled vaguely sharp. He dipped a knife into the jar, licked the knife to taste, and smeared a thick layer of it on a slice of bread. Next slices off of some roasted animal he found in the conservator, someone's leftovers. RX-3081 took a chunk for himself before reaching for the next ingredient, a half-empty jar of sliced red fruits. He opened the jar then decided against it, they smelled sweet. He put that aside before opening another jar and then another. He stabbed his knife into a jar of round green things and ate one, it tasted like salt. Another jar of sliced red fruits smelled like oil, he ate one then laid several more onto his creation. Finally a morsel he'd found hidden in the back of the conservator, a hunk of what smelled like strong nerf cheese wrapped in flimsii and tape with 'Property of Talion DO NOT EAT' written on it. He crumbled the cheese onto his creation then finished it by laying another slice of bread over the whole thing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He couldn't interrogate a suspect without a sandwich first. Especially after the day he'd had.</span>
</p>
<p>“<span>One thing I can appreciate about you Resistance types,” RX-3081 mused as he assembled his sandwich. “You understand food. You see, the First Order, it's efficient. Efficiency means your diet is tailored to your work profile, your genetic profile, your career profile. But nowhere does anybody bother with your taste profile.” He picked up his sandwich and took a bite.</span></p>
<p>
  <span>The cheese was strong, stronger than he usually had the chance to taste. The meat was poorly seasoned, or maybe any salt flavor faded when compared to the little round things in the jar. The bread was rough ration bread reconstituted from powder a few days prior and then left on top of the conservator. The oily red fruits tasted more like char than oil but it wasn't unpleasant. It brought out a slight sweetness from the white goop that he hadn't tasted before.</span>
</p>
<p>“<span>It almost makes me rethink the First Order's need to crush you,” RX-3081 mused. He took another bite, chewing thoughtfully as he waited for the faint hope to cross Arana's face. Yes, there it was.</span></p>
<p>“<span>But then I remember,” RX-3081 continued. “The Resistance eats like this only because the Core eats like this. Most people never see food like this in their entire lives." He held up his sandwich to make a point. "I cobbled this together from your leftovers and it's a greater feast than most of the Outer Rim will ever see in their entire lives. Did you know that? Of course you didn't, that's why you're upholding your New Republic. But I've seen it myself. </span><span>Many of the planets we've liberated from your New Republic barely had food at all. I've watched mothers cry in relief as they handed their children to me, grateful we had the resources to feed their precious little darlings. Tell me, have you ever held a starving baby?”</span></p>
<p>
  <span>The hope began to fade from Arana's eyes but somehow the man still held onto it. Interesting. “So, what, you think the First Order is doing the galaxy a favor?” Arana asked. “You think you're the good guys?”</span>
</p>
<p>“<span>I don't think there are good guys,” RX-3081 said. “I kill people. The Core starves the Outer Rim to feed their greed. The Outer Rim smuggler looks the other way when the spice shipments make enough profit to feed his family. The Hutts take advantage. The corporations hide behind their contracts. Regimes change and everything stays the same. The Outer Rim suffers while the Core grows fat on ignorance and blood money. Tell me, then, do you think the Resistance is better?”</span></p>
<p>“<span>We are,” Arana spat.</span></p>
<p>“<span>You believe that,” RX-3081 mused. He took another bite of sandwich, chewing thoughtfully. “Oh, I'm being rude. Do you want a bite?” He offered the half-eaten sandwich to Arana. Arana turned away, nose wrinkling in disgust.</span></p>
<p>“<span>The Republic gives people a voice, a say in their own future! The First Order takes all that away. You can't tell me you prefer that!”</span></p>
<p>“<span>Does it though?” RX-3081 asked. “Do the people of the galaxy have any say in your Core-focused Senate? Or are they bound by the tyranny of the minority?” He took another bite, almost done with his sandwich. “Does an Outer Rim slave have any say in their future? A scavenger? A moisture farmer? Even colonists go where the Core tells them, suffer and die for the Core's whims.” He took the last bite then wiped his gloves to clear the crumbs from his armor. “No, I think not. I think the Resistance sold you a lie. The Core lied to you. They made you think you mattered so you'd do Organa's dirty work for her.”</span></p>
<p>
  <span>Arana glared in silence, refusing to look away even as RX-3081 took the time and effort to close all the lids and wrap all the leftovers, placing them back in the conservator.</span>
</p>
<p>“<span>The First Order doesn't promise freedom,” RX-3081 said as he finished. “We promise food, shelter, a purpose. For most people, that's all they need in life. For others, we offer revenge. But me?” He smiled. “I get to have fun.”</span></p>
<p>
  <span>Arana's glare turned to a slow dawning fear.</span>
</p>
<p>“<span>That's why you're going to tell me what I want to know,” he continued. “Because if you do, I'll kill you. If you don't, I get to have fun until you do.”</span></p>
<p>“<span>You won't get away with this!”</span></p>
<p>
  <span>RX-3081 laughed. They always said that and somehow they always believed it. In this case, Arana might have been correct if RX-3081 hadn't been so thorough. He sauntered over behind Arana and pushed the chair to a window.</span>
</p>
<p>“<span>I know you're thinking about the long range transmitter,” he said. “I already took care of it. I found the tower while you were unconscious and stopped the droid trying to activate it.” RX-3081 pointed out the window where a GNK droid shuffled out in the open toward the jungle.</span></p>
<p>
  <span>Arana looked closer, his confused expression falling to something hard when he recognized the power supply strapped to the GNK. “You stripped the power supply out of the transmitter,” he realized.</span>
</p>
<p>“<span>I did,” RX-3081 agreed.</span></p>
<p>“<span>And now you're going to sink it into the bogs.”</span></p>
<p>“<span>Hmm?” RX-3081 looked closer as he noticed the GNK beginning to flounder, its heavy metal feet miring in the soft ground. It made sense given his TIE but he hadn't planned on this. Still, he wasn't one to turn away an interesting development. “Oh, not just.”</span></p>
<p>
  <span>Arana craned his head to glance at RX-3081 then back out at the sinking GNK. The GNK's sounds were too far to hear from here, as was the timer counting down as the GNK slowly approached overload. And then the GNK was gone, disappeared under the surface.</span>
</p>
<p>“<span>Soon,” RX-3081 promised. Then he braced himself for the explosion.</span></p>
<p>
  <span>The ground heaved as the GNK exploded, a bubble like an exploding depth charge breaching the surface and then raining down in wet globs of mud. But the actual explosion felt much less impressive than the first one. Good to experience, though. He'd have to remember this one if ever he needed to assemble a report on GNK bombs.</span>
</p>
<p>“<span>You blew it up?!” Arana screamed.</span></p>
<p>
  <span>RX-3081 laughed as he pulled the chair away from the window. “You expected any different?” he crowed. He then pivoted, moving to Arana's front while focusing his piercing eyes on his captive. Arana flinched, looking away, and RX-3081 grabbed Arana's chin, turning his head to face him. “That's why you're going to tell me what I want to know. If you don't, I get to have fun.” RX-3081 grinned, even as Arana tried to turn away again. “And now, I can take all the time I want.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>RX-3081 pulled away then set upon a chair of his own, sprawling across it in a deceptively easy way. He could almost feel the hopelessness beginning to take hold in Arana. “You weren't at D'Qar,” he began. “Dagger Squadron ended up dead during the evacuation. Along with your fleet. Your main leadership. And yet here you are. Where were you during D'Qar? How many of you were left?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arana looked down, unable to meet RX-3081's eyes. “We split up after Starkiller,” he admitted. “Poe took half. I took the other half. I case...”</span>
</p>
<p>“<span>In case the First Order tracked down your base.”</span></p>
<p>
  <span>Arana nodded. “Poe took seven. I took... seven...”</span>
</p>
<p>“<span>What were you doing out here?”</span></p>
<p>
  <span>Arana didn't answer.</span>
</p>
<p>“<span>You know what happens to you if you don't tell me,” RX-3081 warned.</span></p>
<p>“<span>I know what happens to them if I do,” Arana whispered.</span></p>
<p>
  <span>RX-3081 drew his knife, idly holding it before himself as he gently twirled it by the handle. 'To them', meaning others in the Resistance. Which meant this little sojourn into the Unknown Regions was planned. The Resistance knew they were out here and sent them for a reason. But what was that reason?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The long range transmitter...</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If this was a planned excursion then the long range transmitter wasn't just an emergency beacon. It would be used for regular updates. Once these updates stopped the Resistance would suspect...</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kriff.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He had the memory cores pulled from the last five astromech droids, pulled after deactivating them. Of course he then shot the chassis to cover his theft. It wouldn't cover an in-depth analysis. He'd need to strafe the base before leaving just to make sure nobody thought to complete such an analysis.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And now he knew his time here was limited. He didn't have the time for fun anymore, not if he was going to get off this planet without a trace for the Resistance to find. He stood up, knife in one hand. “Your silence won't buy them freedom,” RX-3081 said. “Only time. But I suppose you believe time spent cold and alone and afraid is better than no time at all. That seems to be how your Resistance works. You fight to uphold a status quo that doesn't care for you or your sacrifices. You give your lives to protect rich corporations and Core citizens that expect it of you. It's your place to die for them and they know it. Your death means nothing more to them than a purpose fulfilled. The only difference between you and I is I know what I am.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>RX-3081 grabbed Arana by the hair and pulled his head back, baring the neck. He drew the blade of his knife across that neck, forcing Arana to watch him as he did it.</span>
</p>
<p>“<span>And now, you know it too,” RX-3081 whispered as he watched the light in Arana's eyes fade, as gasping lips went pale, as arterial spray painted the room and the table and his helm on the counter. “Fulfill your purpose.”</span></p>
<p>
  <span>Arana's eyes went blank, his limbs falling limp as he stopped straining against his bonds, his life fading away as the flow of blood slowed and slowed and stopped.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was over. Dagger Squadron was now destroyed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>RX-3081 sliced through the neck to remove the head. He didn't have time to linger here, he had work to do.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. The Return</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A lone T-85 X-Wing dropped out of hyperspace.</p><p>The figure within flew without droid support. Instead he had a TIE Scout hyperdrive computer core in his lap. The old computer core wasn't large, not much bigger than a BB droid's head. It gave the figure within room to work as he switched ports and punched a console and spliced wires in ways the technology was never meant to handle.</p><p>He tapped out commands on the console of the X-Wing, pushed buttons on the computer core, compared figures on the console, and nearly threw his hands up in frustration. Every third flight out of a mission seemed to end like this, with a hyperdrive computer core that fought him for every jump as he forced incompatible technologies to interface. Still, he'd be madder about it if he didn't seem to pull it off each time, switching wires and restarting the core until it reconnected and calculated the next jump.</p><p>The base behind on [redacted] was destroyed. He topped off the tanks of the X-Wing then strafed the base until nothing intelligible remained. The only proof of the Resistance Base's identity lay with him, in the memory cores he'd salvaged from astromech droids and the protocol droid, in the scant data he'd found stored on local computer systems, and in the severed head that gaped ominously behind him.</p><p>Dagger Squadron was destroyed. Now all RX-3081 had to do was get home.</p><p>He forced the hyperdrive core give him coordinates then jumped to hyperspace. He was almost home.</p><hr/><p>RX-3081 dropped out of hyperspace to a beautiful, wonderful, deadly sight.</p><p>The <em>Finalizer</em> hung in space, her great dark chevron blocking the light of stars behind her. But he couldn't admire the view, not without risking life and limb. He was, after all, flying an X-Wing. He opened the comms and began broadcasting his call sign and serial number.</p><p>“My serial number is RX-3081,” he said, voice carefully level. “I'm a field sniper with the Second Expeditionary Scout Squad, RX Cadre. I'm returning from a mission to redac--” He caught himself before he could say it was a mission to '[redacted]' as though that was the planet's name. Instead he used the alphanumeric code that Intelligence gave him, a safe way to refer to the planet without giving away a name. “To PX-1138. I request medical attention.”</p><p>The <em>Finalizer</em> didn't open fire. Instead the Star Destroyer's tractor beams activated, pulling the X-Wing into the great belly of the ship.</p><p>At least they weren't shooting him out of space. He might even avoid an interrogation this time. One would think they'd grow used to his entrances by now, especially given how often his missions required he make his own way there and back.</p><p>RX-3081 sat back and checked the zip ties holding his arm together. The arm had swelled inside his armor, his hand stiff. The fingers barely moved, the skin tight inside his glove. He knew if he managed to take that glove off the fingers would be bruised purple. Instead he left it alone. He didn't want to think about it.</p><p>Soon enough the X-Wing jolted and came to a gentle stop. He heard movement outside on both sides of the X-Wing's nose, an armed precaution in case he was a resistance operative masquerading as a Stormtrooper. RX-3081 put his hands on the dashboard where they were visible and far from the X-Wing's weapon controls to await orders.</p><p>“Open the cockpit!”</p><p>RX-3081 opened the cockpit and immediately six blasters were aimed at his head.</p><p>“Hands up.”</p><p>RX-3081 slowly raised his hands over his head. The left arm didn't lift as easily as it should but he hoped the visible zip ties would be explanation enough.</p><p>It wasn't.</p><p>A Stormtrooper grabbed RX-3081 by the left forearm to try and drag him around. RX-3081 screamed. He felt a faint crack and then everything went red as he swung out to punch the Stormtrooper off the nose of the X-Wing.</p><p>It took a moment to realize he wasn't dead. Nobody had fired. Okay then. Instead pain lanced up his arm, driving him back into the pilot's seat as he couldn't stand. He had no idea how he was going to get out of the cockpit now. But that wasn't necessarily his problem anymore.</p><p>The X-Wing shook as a person climbed the side. RX-3081 looked up to see one of the Stormtrooper captains. “Ow,” he said as way of explanation.</p><p>The captain looked at the arm, the armor no longer enough to keep the limb straight. “Report, sniper,” the captain demanded.</p><p>“Mission to PX-1138,” RX-3081 said through gritted teeth. “Resistance base destroyed. Intelligence gathered. I escaped.”</p><p>“Why are you in an enemy ship? What was your initial mission plan for escape?”</p><p>“Make my own way back.” RX-3081 gestured with his good arm to the X-Wing. “It usually is. I brought a present this time.”</p><p>“Give me an inventory.”</p><p>“Six droid cores,” RX-3081 reported. “Forward to Intelligence for cracking. My weapons to the RX-Cadre, ask for JN-1301. An X-Wing, do whatever. Also, I have a head.”</p><p>This gave the captain pause. “A... head?”</p><p>“And it's mine,” RX-3081 warned. “Make sure JN-1301 knows it's mine or TK-1959 is going to steal it. I have plans for that head.”</p><p>The captain didn't say a word.</p><p>“It's a gift!”</p><p>The captain still didn't say a word. Instead he gestured for two Stormtroopers to climb the X-Wing and pull RX-3081 from the cockpit.</p><p>He hoped they weren't going to steal his head. He worked hard for that head.</p><p>That was his last thought as the hangar bay went dark.</p><hr/><p>RX-3081 never enjoyed waking up here.</p><p>To be fair, nobody ever enjoyed waking up here. The deactivated droids in the corners were never as helpful as their function demanded. The bacta tank was too clear, a result of the additives that cut the bacta within to less than optimal strength. The operating table was far too front and center, like this operating theatre was meant to be an actual theatre. It even had an observation deck, where interested parties could watch such barbaric practices as actual surgeries.</p><p>But the worst was the actual scientist who ran the entire thing.</p><p>
  <span>Dr. Calla Katsuo wasn't a medical doctor. She never claimed to be a medical doctor. Most people knew better than to accuse her of being a medical doctor, at least, most people either learned not to call her that or they died before they learned better. She was some kind of researcher, a kind that RX-3081 knew not to question.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All he needed to know was the results she provided him with. Him and others.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was currently strapped to an operating table in the middle of the room. The droids were still deactivated. His armor was gone, same with his underarmor and underwear. He wasn't even sure if he had a towel to cover his modesty nor was he interested in looking. Looking meant knowing more than he wanted to.</span>
</p><p>“<span>You're awake,” Dr. Katsuo observed.</span></p><p>
  <span>The doctor was a biologist of some type. She wasn't dressed for surgery, she was dressed for research. Black latex gloves encased her arms up to her shoulders, up underneath the sleeves of the short-sleeved lab coat she wore. The lab coat was stained with blood and interstitial fluid, the remains of previous experiments. Her eyes were impossible to see, hidden beneath droid lenses that glowed in a set of goggles that completely covered her eyes. A latex hood covered her head and hair, removing almost all humanity from her as she leaned over him and grinned.</span>
</p><p>“<span>Because I have to say this, for the record, it would be easier on both of us if you let me replace it,” Dr. Katsuo warned.</span></p><p>“<span>I know,” RX-3081 allowed. "For the record, I refuse." He didn't want a replacement. A droid arm wouldn't have the same response time as his own arm. He'd have to relearn how to use it. He could end up like Dr. Bescom with a half-connected ulnar nerve that caused the entire arm to twitch. His career as a sniper might be over if he accepted a replacement.</span></p><p>
  <span>Dr. Katsuo grinned and RX-3081 knew he was safe. He knew he was safe and yet he dreaded what came next with every fibre of his being.</span>
</p><p>“<span>Good,” she purred as she placed a mask over his face.</span></p><p>“<span>I've always wanted to try this on a living specimen,” she said as the world went dark.</span></p><hr/><p>“You had a spiral fracture of the left radius. That would have been it but someone decided to mess with your arm while it was field-splinted and caused the bone to fragment inside the skin.”</p><p>RX-3081 slowly came back to awareness. He was still in the medical lab, still in Dr. Katsuo's clutches. His mouth tasted like pain and dry and the bitter taste of medical tubing. When had he been intubated? He didn't remember any tubes. He barely understood what Dr. Katuso was talking about. Until he looked down.</p><p>His arm was a mess. It was clear she'd had fun. Metal spikes stabbed out from within his arm at the wrist and the elbow. Those spikes, or were they pins, were connected to each other by wires that looked like they could be tightened to force his arm into various positions. It struck him as an amazing torture opportunity but he didn't particularly want to be the one on this end of it. A bacta cast wrapped around his arm, around the elbow and wrist even with the pins sticking through the cast into the flesh below. Maybe even into the bone itself.</p><p>“I got to use something new,” Dr. Katsuo continued. Happiness drifted off of her in waves and the incongruity of it all left RX-3081 feeling oddly giddy. Or maybe that was the last vestige of whatever gas she used on him. “I grew a calcium phosphate matrix and fitted it to your bones. Or, at least where your bones will be. There was a lot of shattering getting you out of the X-Wing. I had to remove all sorts of shards. I expect you'll be grounded for a few weeks as the bones regrow. I've ordered a change in your diet cards to account for the new bone growth.”</p><p>
  <span>RX-3081 attempted to move the arm and found it passably mobile. He couldn't twist the forearm at all but he could move the elbow and wrist like standard hinges. It would be enough to allow him to get around while it healed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Dr. Katsuo approached and RX-3081 had to deal with the reality of the tiny mad scientist almost pressed against him as she grinned her manic grin and purred her dangerous glee. “I expect you'll have to have the bacta replaced every two days,” she warned. “You will come back. So few patients of mine are so insistent on keeping their limbs. Replacements are so easy to come by these days...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>RX-3081 swallowed nervously but nodded.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She squealed in glee and pulled away, her latex fingers idly toying with the wires attached to his pins. “I'll check the alignment each day,” she promised. “We wouldn't want to go through all this work only for me to have to rebreak and reset everything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>RX-3081 shook his head. He didn't want that at all.</span>
</p><p>“<span>Good man,” she praised. “I'll pull the pins out when the bones are set. Then we can discuss electroshock therapy to get the hand back to full strength. That sounds just wonderful, doesn't it.”</span></p><p>
  <span>RX-3081 knew better than to argue with her. That just meant she'd ensure he needed it. “There's no one I trust more to handle it,” he said instead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That got him the reward of his bonds snapping open. She snapped her fingers and the inactive droids finally came to life, acting as the nurse droids they were always meant to be. He was free.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He fled as soon as he could.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>The mission was over. He'd been released, for some definitions of, from Medical. Or at least from Dr. Katsuo. His final report was due as soon as he officially had time to sit down and write the kriffing thing. The droid cores were still with Intelligence, spikers going after whatever information could be gleaned from the memories of dead Resistance droids. His helm was with Intelligence as well, data being downloaded from the helm to corroborate the report he gave.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was only one thing left to do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He held the box in his good arm, his left still unarmored and casted in a bacta cast, the pins and wires open for any to see. He'd spoken to the Supreme Leader, he had implicit permission, he even followed the Supreme Leader's advice and stuffed the gift in a box where it couldn't leak any inadvertent fluids.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>RX-3081 chimed the office door of the Grand Marshall of the First Order.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had a head to deliver.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
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